


i will write in words of fire ( write beginnings, write of sin )

by Niahara_Erskine



Series: Tales from the Primordial Soup [5]
Category: Abrahamic Religions, Christian Bible (Old Testament), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett, Sefer Chanoch | Book of Enoch
Genre: Angst, Angst and Tragedy, Angst with a Happy Ending, Body horror ( sort of ish ), Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Emotional Manipulation, Gabriel is a darling, Gen, God's A+ Parenting, Hurt/Comfort, Implied / Referenced child death, Lucifer has a favorite brother, Minor Character Death, Torture, Violence, he's also fed up with your shit Michael, in slightly controversial ways, three guesses who, turning Biblical events on their head
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-11-27
Updated: 2016-11-27
Packaged: 2018-09-02 17:01:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,550
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8675479
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Niahara_Erskine/pseuds/Niahara_Erskine
Summary: Raphael is crushed by his guilt. Gabriel clings tight to his secrets. Michael hides behind righteousness and bravado. Uriel refuses to remember. When ties of brotherhood are sundered, when secrets that had been long buried threaten to come to light and old wounds start bleeding anew, a seemingly impenetrable prison is breached and the forces of Heaven are showed that sometimes forever can be much shorter than it might seem and those often ignored are the most dangerous of all. When the time of Reckoning comes, it does so with vengeance.





	

**Author's Note:**

> I know I haven't yet finished "it's an act of magic," but this idea has been bugging me for a while and the story stands pretty well on its own, as it is linked to the events in "hearts can be well-hidden" and chapter two of "there's an old man," but will have very little to do with "it's an act of magic."

_“Bind Azazel hand and foot, and cast him into the darkness: and make an opening in the desert, which is in Dudael, and cast him therein. And place upon him rough and jagged rocks, and cover him with darkness, and let him abide there for ever, and cover his face so that he may not see light. And on the day of the great judgement he shall be cast into the fire.”_

They were not made to rebel.

They were not granted Free Will and they held not the rancor the Fallen had, the bitterness and the darkness that would make them turn against the one who made them.

When the Order came, they submitted to His Will, moved to earth to enact it. Although not all were soldiers; although not all felt at home on the battlefield, but rather preferred the healing arts, the soothing touch and the ability to mend one's wounds. Their Father demanded it of them so they meted out His judgement without a moment's hesitation.

They were not made to rebel.

But they could sorrow. They could grieve

If only they had been given the same gift as humanity, the ability to choose one's fate and refuse.

___

“Raphael has gone yet again,” the voice is unhappy, disapproval lingering in every syllable. The stars are still glimmering above their heads in the gardens of Heaven as Michael seeks his younger brother to vent his ire.

“You know he regrets. He is a healer, Michael, not a warrior. The task which our Father entrusted to him weighs heavily upon his mind. He is not made to wound, but to sooth.” Though Gabriel’s response is placating, there is an undercurrent of annoyance in his words, the sign of a discussion that had worn off its welcome many a time ago.

“He regrets the fitting punishment he doled to a traitor. That is also a betrayal albeit one of lesser magnitude. He may as well go to Father and declare his disapproval over the judgement itself.”

“Do you not regret?” the messenger inquires, fingers fiddling with a black feather tied to his trumpet. “The justice we have dealt? The kin we have slayed in the past? One may understand the necessity of an action and still regret its outcome. I know I still regret striking my brothers down.” His wings twitch in remembered pain, twice over, the flames of the Grigori a lingering memory still painful to recall.

“I do not.” Stern words and resolute, though Gabriel can see the bold lie hiding Michael’s own regrets away. The leader of God’s armies cannot afford to doubt his actions, but the messenger knows his brother well enough to understand the sorrow hidden deep within. “And you should not either. They had forsaken their path, turned their back to us. They were brothers and sisters to us no more. Just like the one whose name you refuse to disclose and whose feather you carry tied to your trumpet.”

Hands move faster than younger archangel can stop them, the action unforeseen and unable to parry. Michael grasps the feather with little care, tearing it away from the trumpet, a note of disdain in golden eyes as he beholds it.

“Michael,” a note of warning, anger thrumming in the name as Gabriel addresses his brother. “Return it at once. You have no right to take it.” The link to the secret he holds dear to his heart, a secret he would share with his siblings if he could. But he cannot and though it pains him, he is not willing to relinquish the precious moments he shares with his forgotten brother to assuage Michael’s distrust.

“I will not. The messenger of God has no reason to hold upon a demon’s feather.” Brilliant white wings open at the archangel’s back, a last look of disapproval cast upon his younger brother before Michael rises from the ground, robes fluttering around his form as he departs.

Behind, in one of Heaven’s many gardens, a messenger bites back his fury, fists curling at his side, part of him understanding why Lucifer is adamant in not allowing the others to remember. The feather is of little importance, he can merely ask for another when he meets his brother. But the memory of its gifting, the parting words that were shared, those are cherished beyond anything. And even if her were to share them with Michael, the other would not understand. Without their memories, none of them would.

How could they?

Everyone knows the Adversary cares little for anyone else, even his own. After all, did he not allow the Fallen to fight their own battles, without ever bothering to offer them aid?

And yet, Gabriel knows better. Understands better.

\---

He wakes.

Darkness surrounds him, pressing on all sides, breath coming out in gasps, echoes of memories that still hurt. The very air in the room is stifling, so he forces his body out of bed, powder blue eyes drawing the curtains away, seeking the horizon. On Earth, the Sun is yet to rise, pale whispers of light feebly breaking the horizon. The night still lingers and will do so for a little while more, bringing his memories back to the surface.

He gazes at his hands; pristine and clean, skin unblemished. He blinks; stains of red bloom over them in his imagination, rust red coating them over. Hands of a murderer. Hands of prison guard. No longer hands of a Healer. They tremble with remembrance, the feeling of rocks upon skin not yet chased away, the dust under his fingernails still lingering in his recollection.

Father demanded it and he had obeyed, but at what cost?

His eyes close, echoes of screams and curses still lingering in his memory. Azazel’s eyes burn in his thoughts, bloodshot and enraged, hatred and sorrow vivid on every inch of his features even as he hoisted rock upon rock upon rock on his bound body. As he encased him forever in darkness.

_‘Hypocrite. Traitor. Liar.’_

He had not killed them, though at times it felt as if he had. He remembers their dying gasps, their powerless screams, their will to fight until the very last breath. He remembers Michael tearing his sword out of their skin, golden eyes blazing with righteous fury, movements driven by the love they all held for their Father. He remembers Gabriel cutting down Samyaza with the very same viciousness he had used to cut down the Fallen's children, divine fire illuminating features usually so placid and benevolent. And last of all he remembers Uriel, calm as he ever is, reciting their Father’s decree to the Grigori and the Nephilim - _children, some of them still children, Father help him their cries of fear still linger_ \- , damning them without a moment of hesitation.

_‘Bind Azazel hand and foot. Cast him into darkness.’_

His Father had demanded and he had obeyed. What else could he had done? It had been a test perhaps, but centuries later Raphael cannot say whether he passed it or failed. 

“Why Father, why me?” A sob escapes lips that had been bitten till blood had been drawn, knees folding underneath the Archangel. Silver wings unfurl, closing around him, shielding him from sight as sorrow racks his body.

On Earth, the Sun is just peering above the horizon, its rays casting light to scare away the darkness. In Jerusalem, in a house like so many others, close to a place known to some as Tartarus and to others as Dudael, an archangel breaks as the memories of so long ago weigh heavily upon his heart.

\---

“He mourns them still,” a voice echoes in a damp cavern, flickering flames illuminating harsh features and a wizened face. A woman, not quite old, but weathered down by harshness, gazes in a mirror, her scrying spell revealing the archangel in Jerusalem. At her side yet another, younger, unassuming at a first glance, twists her lips in contempt, hatred burning in brown eyes.

“Too little, too late. Our journals paint him as no better than the others; an honorless cur who might not have raised his sword against our kin, but stroke them down nonetheless. The bindings are his making; the darkness his fault.”

“We may yet use him, child,” the older woman points out in a placating manner, hands moving to banish the image from the mirror. “Who else knows the bindings better than him? We could break them so much faster.”

“No,” a harsh reply, anger suffused in the simple word. “He forbid us from touching the archangel, but neither will we use him. We shall break the chains ourselves and when he is free, he may do as he wishes with God’s pet healer.”

The younger woman rises, unwilling to hear anymore; the older woman is a tool and nothing more to her, a way to break the chains she has no way of breaking herself. She will be rid of the Seer as soon as her usefulness will be at an end. As for the others, the messenger and the soldier, she will delight in making them scream. He had forbid her from touching the healer, but had made no mention of the others. Oh, how she would revel in their agony.

Soon; so very soon.


End file.
